Mingo By Joel Chandler Harris

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Title: Mingo
And Other Sketches in Black and White

Author: Joel Chandler Harris

Release Date: October 28, 2006 [EBook #19648]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MINGO ***

Produced by Michael Gray

MINGO

AND OTHER SKETCHES IN BLACK AND WHITE

BY

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"UNCLE REMUS"

Author's Edition

EDINBURGH:

DAVID DOUGLAS, CASTLE STREET

1899

EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY T. AND A. CONSTABLE FOR DAVID DOUGLAS
LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL AND CO.

CONTENTS.

MINGO: A SKETCH OF LIFE IN MIDDLE GEORGIA
AT TEAGUE POTEET'S: A SKETCH OF THE HOG MOUNTAIN RANGE
A PIECE OF LAND
BLUE DAVE

MINGO: A SKETCH OF LIFE IN MIDDLE GEORGIA

MINGO: A SKETCH OF LIFE IN MIDDLE GEORGIA.

I.

IN 1876, circumstances, partly accidental and partly sentimental, led me to revisit Crooked Creek Church, near the
little village of Rockville, in Middle Georgia. I was amazed at the changes which a few brief years had wrought. The
ancient oaks ranged roundabout remained the same, but upon everything else time had laid its hand right heavily. Even
the building seemed to have shrunk: the pulpit was less massive and imposing, the darkness beyond the rafters less
mysterious. The preacher had grown grey, and feebleness had taken the place of that physical vigour which was the
distinguishing feature of his interpretations of the larger problems of theology. People I had never seen sat in the places
of those I had known so well. There were only traces here and there of the old congregation, whose austere simplicity
had made so deep an impression upon my youthful mind The blooming girls of 1860 had grown into careworn matrons,
and the young men had developed in their features the strenuous uncertainty and misery of the period of desolation and
disaster through which they had passed. Anxiety had so ground itself into their lives that a stranger to the manner might
well have been pardoned for giving a sinister interpretation to these pitiable manifestations of hopelessness and
unsuccess.

I had known the venerable preacher intimately in the past; but his eyes, wandering vaguely over the congregation, and
resting curiously upon me, betrayed no recognition. Age, which had whitened his hair and enfeebled his voice, seemed
also to have given him the privilege of ignoring everything but the grave and the mysteries beyond.

These swift processes of change and decay were calculated to make a profound impression, but my attention was
called away from all such reflections. Upon a bench near the pulpit, in the section reserved for the coloured members,
sat an old negro man whose face was perfectly familiar. I had known him in my boyhood as Mingo, the carriage-driver
and body-servant of Judge Junius Wornum. He had changed but little. His head was whiter than when I saw him last,
but his attitude was as firm and as erect, and the evidences of his wonderful physical strength as apparent, as ever. He
sat with his right hand to his chin, his strong serious face turned contemplatively toward the rafters. When his eye
chanced to meet mine, a smile of recognition lit up his features, his head and body drooped forward, and his hand fell
away from his face, completing a salutation at once graceful, picturesque, and imposing.

I have said that few evidences of change manifested themselves in Mingo; and so it seemed at first, but a closer
inspection showed one remarkable change. I had known him when his chief purpose in life seemed to be to enjoy
himself. He was a slave, to be sure, but his condition was no restraint upon his spirits. He was known far and wide as
"Laughing Mingo," and upon hundreds of occasions he was the boon companion of the young men about Rockville in
their wild escapades. Many who read this will remember the "'possum suppers" which it was Mingo's delight to prepare
for these young men, and he counted among his friends and patrons many who afterward became distinguished both in
war and in the civil professions. At these gatherings, Mingo, bustling around and serving his guests, would keep the
table in a roar with his quaint sayings, and his local satires in the shape of impromptu doggerel; and he would also repeat
snatches of orations which he had heard in Washington when Judge Wornum was a member of Congress. But his chief
accomplishments lay in the wonderful ease and fluency with which he imitated the eloquent appeals of certain ambitious
members of the Kockville bar, and in his travesties of the bombastic flights of the stump-speakers of that day.

It appeared, however, as he sat in the church, gazing thoughtfully and earnestly at the preacher, that the old-time spirit
of fun and humour had been utterly washed out of his face. There was no sign of grief, no mark of distress, but he had
the air of settled anxiety belonging to those who are tortured by an overpowering responsibility. Apparently here was an
interesting study. If the responsibilities of life are problems to those who have been trained to solve them, how much
more formidable must they be to this poor negro but lately lifted to his feet! Thus my reflections took note of the
pathetic associations and suggestions clustering around this dignified representative of an unfortunate race.

Upon this particular occasion church services were to extend into the afternoon, and there was an interval of rest after
the morning sermon, covering the hour of noon. This interval was devoted by both old and young to the discussion of
matters seriously practical. The members of the congregation had brought their dinner baskets, and the contents thereof
were spread around under the trees in true pastoral style. Those who came unprovided were, in pursuance of an
immemorial custom of the section and the occasion, taken in charge by the simple and hearty hospitality of the
members.

Somehow I was interested in watching Mingo. As he passed from the church with the congregation, and moved slowly
along under the trees, he presented quite a contrast to the other negroes who were present. These, with the results of
their rural surroundings superadded to the natural shyness of their race, hung upon the outskirts of the assembly, as
though their presence was merely casual, while Mingo passed along from group to group of his white friends and
acquaintances with that familiar and confident air of meritorious humility and unpretentious dignity which is associated
with good-breeding and gentility the world over. When he lifted his hat in salutation, there was no servility in the gesture;
when he bent his head, and dropped his eyes upon the ground, his dignity was strengthened and fortified rather than
compromised. Both his manners and his dress retained the flavour of a social system the exceptional features of which
were too often by both friend and foe made to stand for the system itself. His tall beaver, with its curled brim, and his
blue broadcloth dress-coat, faded and frayed, with its brass buttons, bore unmistakable evidence of their age and

origin, but they seemed to be a reasonable and necessary contribution to his individuality.

Passing slowly through the crowd, Mingo made his way to a double-seated buggy shielded from all contingencies of sun
and rain by an immense umbrella. Prom beneath the seat he drew forth a large hamper, and proceeded to arrange its
contents upon a wide bench which stood near.

While this was going on I observed a tall angular woman, accompanied by a bright-looking little girl, making her way
toward Mingo's buggy. The woman was plainly, oven shabbily, dressed, so that the gay ribbons and flowers worn by
the child were gaudy by contrast. The woman pressed forward with decision, her movements betraying a total absence
of that undulatory grace characteristic of the gentler sex, while the little girl dancing about her showed not only the grace
and beauty of youth, but a certain refinement of pose and gesture calculated to attract attention.

Mingo made way for these with ready deference, and after a little I saw him coming toward me. He came forward,
shook hands, and remarked that he had brought me an invitation to dine with Mrs. Feratia Bivins.

"Miss F'raishy 'members you, boss," he said, bowing and smiling, "en she up'n say she be mighty glad er yo' comp'ny ef
you kin put up wid cole vittles an' po' far'; en ef you come," he added on his own account, "we like it mighty well."

II.

ACCEPTING the invitation, I presently found myself dining with Mrs. Bivins, and listening to her remarkable flow of
small-talk, while Mingo hovered around, the embodiment of active hospitality.

"Mingo 'lowed he'd ast you up," said Mrs. Bivins, "an' I says, says I, 'Don't you be a-pesterin' the gentulmun, when you
know thar's plenty er the new-issue quality ready an' a-waitin' to pull an' haul at 'im,' says I. Not that I begrudge the
vittles—not by no means; I hope I hain't got to that yit. But somehow er 'nother folks what hain't got no great shakes to
brag 'bout gener'ly feels sorter skittish when strange folks draps in on 'em. Goodness knows I hain't come to that pass
wher' I begrudges the vittles that folks eats, bekaze anybody betweenst this an' Clinton, Jones County, Georgy, 'll tell
you the Sanderses wa'n't the set to stint the'r stomachs. I was a Sanders 'fore I married, an' when I come 'way frum
pa's house hit was thes like turnin' my back on a barbecue. Not by no means was I begrudgin' of the vittles. Says I,
'Mingo,' says I, 'ef the gentulmun is a teetotal stranger, an' nobody else hain't got the common perliteness to ast 'im,
shorely you mus' ast 'im,' says I; 'but don't go an' make no great to-do,' says I; 'bekaze the little we got mightent be
satisfactual to the gentulmun,' says I. What we got may be little enough, an' it may be too much, but hit's welcome."

It would be impossible to convey an idea of the emphasis which Mrs. Bivins imposed upon her conversation. She
talked rapidly, but with a certain deliberation of manner which gave a quaint interest to everything she said. She had thin
grey hair, a prominent nose, firm thin lips, and eyes that gave a keen and sparkling individuality to sharp and homely
features. She had evidently seen sorrow and defied it. There was no suggestion of compromise in manner or expression.
Even her hospitality was uncompromising. I endeavoured to murmur my thanks to Mrs. Bivins for Mingo's
thoughtfulness, but her persistent conversation drowned out such poor phrases as I could hastily frame.

"Come 'ere, Pud Hon," continued Mrs. Bivins, calling the child, and trimming the demonstrative terms of "Pudding" and
"Honey" to suit all exigencies of affection—"come 'ere, Pud Hon, an' tell the gentulmun howdy. Gracious me! don't be
so countrified. He ain't a-gwine to bite you. No, sir, you won't fine no begrudgers mixed up with the Sanderses. Hit
useter be a common sayin' in Jones, an' cle'r 'cross into Jasper, that pa would 'a bin a rich man an' 'a owned niggers if
it hadn't but 'a bin bekase he sot his head agin stintin' of his stomach. That's what they useter say—usen't they, Mingo?"

"Dat w'at I year tell, Miss F'raishy—sho'," Mingo assented, with great heartiness. But Mrs. Bivins's volubility would
hardly wait for this perfunctory indorsement. She talked as she arranged the dishes, and occasionally she would hold a
piece of crockery suspended in the air as she emphasised her words. She dropped into a mortuary strain—"Poor pa! I
don't never have nuthin' extry an' I don't never see a dish er fried chicken but what pa pops in my mind. A better man
hain't never draw'd the breath of life—that they hain't. An' he was thes as gayly as a kitten. When we gals'd have
comp'ny to dinner, pore pa he'd cut his eye at me, an' up an' say, says he, 'Gals, this 'ere turkey's mighty nice, yit I'm
reely afeared you put too much inguns in the stuffin. Maybe the young men don't like 'em as good as you all does;' an'
then pore pa'd drap his knife an' fork, an' laugh tell the tears come in his eyes. Sister Prue she useter run off an' have a
cry, but I was one er the kind what wa'n't easy sot back.

"I'd 'a bin mighty glad if Pud yer had er took airter pa's famerly, but frum the tip eend er her toe nails to the toppermust
ha'r of her head she's a Wornum. Hit ain't on'y thes a streak yer an' a stripe thar—hit's the whole bolt. I reckon maybe
you know'd ole Jedge June Wornum; well, Jedge June he was Pud's gran'pa, an' Deely Wornum was her ma. Maybe
you might 'a seed Deely when she was a school-gal."

Cordelia Wornum! No doubt my astonishment made itself apparent, for Mrs. Bivins bridled up promptly, and there was
a clearly perceptible note of defiance in her tone as she proceeded.

"Yes, sir-ree! An' make no mistake! Deely Wornum married my son, an' Henry Clay Bivina made 'er a good husbun',

if I do have to give it out myse'f. Yes, 'ndeed! An' yit if you'd 'a heern the rippit them Wornums kicked up, you'd 'a
thought the pore chile'd done took'n run off 'long of a whole passel er high pirates frum somewheres er 'nother. In about
that time the ole Jedge he got sorter fibbled up, some say in his feet, an' some say in his head; but his wife, that Em'ly
Wornum, she taken on awful. I never seen her a-gwine on myse'f; not that they was any hidin' out 'mongst the Bivinses
er the Sanderses—bless you, no! bekaze here's what wa'n't afeared er all the Wornums in the continental State er
Georgy, not if they'd 'a mustered out under the lead er ole Nick hisse'f, which I have my doubta if he wa'n't
somewheres aroun'. I never seen 'er, but I heern tell er how she was a-cuttin' up. You mayn't think it, but that 'oman
taken it on herse'f to call up all the niggers on the place an' give 'em her forbiddance to go an' see the'r young mistiss."

"Yit I lay dey tuck 'n sneak 'roun' en come anyhow, ain't dey, Miss F'raishy?" inquired Mingo, rubbing his hands
together and smiling blandly.

"That they did—that they did!" was Mrs. Bivins's emphatic response. "Niggers is niggers, but them Wornum niggers
was a cut er two 'bove the common run. I'll say that, an' I'll say it on the witness stan'. Freedom might a turned the'r
heads when it come to t'other folks, but hit didn't never turn the'r heads 'bout the'r young mistiss. An' if Mingo here
hain't done his juty 'cordin' to his lights, then I dunner what juty is. I'll say that open an' above-board, high an' low."

The curious air of condescension which Mrs. Bivins assumed as she said this, the tone of apology which she employed
in paying this tribute to Mingo and the Wornum negroes, formed a remarkable study. Evidently she desired me distinctly
to understand that in applauding these worthy coloured people she was in no wise compromising her own dignity.

Thus Mrs. Bivins rattled away, pausing only long enough now and then to deplore my lack of appetite. Meanwhile
Mingo officiated around the improvised board with gentle affability; and the little girl, bearing strong traces of her lineage
in her features—a resemblance which was confirmed by a pretty little petulance of temper—made it convenient now
and again to convey a number of tea cakes into Mingo's hat, which happened to be sitting near, the conveyance taking
place in spite of laughable pantomimic protests on the part of the old man, ranging from appealing nods and grimaces to
indignant frowns and gestures.

"When Deely died," Mrs. Bivins went on, waving a towel over a tempting jar of preserves, "they wa'n't nobody but
what was afeared to break it to Emily Wornum, an' the pore chile'd done been buried too long to talk about before her
ma heern tell of it, an' then she drapped like a clap er thunder had hit 'er. Airter so long a time, Mingo thar he taken it
'pun hisse'f to tell 'er, an' she flopped right down in 'er tracks, an' Mingo he holp 'er into the house, an', bless your life,
when he come to he'p 'er out'n it, she was a changed 'oman. 'Twa'n't long 'fore she taken a notion to come to my house,
an' one mornin' when I was a-washin' up dishes, I heern some un holler at the gate, an' thar sot Mingo peerched up on
the Wornum carry-all, an' of all livin' flesh, who should be in thar but ole Emily Wornum!

"Hit's a sin to say it," continued Mrs. Bivins, smiling a dubious little smile that was not without its serious suggestions,
"but I tightened up my apern strings, an' flung my glance aroun' tell hit drapped on the battlin'-stick, bekaze I flared up
the minnit I seen 'er, an' I says to myse'f, says I: 'If hit's a fracas youer huntin', my lady, I lay you won't hafter put on
your specs to fine it.' An' then I says to Pud, says I—

"'Pud Hon, go in the shed-room thar, chile, an' if you hear anybody a-hollerin' an' a-squallin', thes shet your eyeleds an'
grit your teeth, bekaze hit'll be your pore ole granny a-tryin' to git even with some er your kin.'

"An' then I taken a cheer an' sot down by the winder. D'reckly in come Emily Wornum, an' I wish I may die if I'd 'a
know'd 'er if I'd saw 'er anywheres else on the face er the yeth. She had this 'ere kinder dazzled look what wimmen has
airter they bin baptized in the water. I helt my head high, but I kep' my eye on the battlin'-stick, an' if she'd 'a made fight,
I'll be boun' they'd 'a bin some ole sco'es settled then an' thar if ole sco'es ken be settled by a frailin'. But, bless your
heart, they wa'n't never no cammer 'oman than what Emily Wornum was; an' if you'd 'a know'd 'er, an' Mingo wa'n't
here to b'ar me out, I wish I may die if I wouldn't be afeared to tell you how ca'm an' supjued that 'oman was, which in
her young days she was a tarrifier. She up an' says, says she—

"'Is Mizzers Bivins in?'

"'Yessum,' says I, 'she is that-away. An more 'n that, nobody don't hafter come on this hill an' holler more 'n twicet
'thout gittin'some kinder answer back. Yessum! An' what's more, Mizzers Bivins is come to that time er life when she's
mighty proud to git calls from the big- bugs. If I had as much perliteness, ma'am, as I is cheers, I'd ast you to set down,'
says I.

"She stood thar, she did, thes as cool as a cowcumber; but d'reckly she ups an' says, says she—

"'Might I see my little gran'chile?' says she.

"'Oho, ma'am!' says I; 'things is come to a mighty purty pass when quality folks has to go frum house to house a-huntin'
up pore white trash, an' a-astin' airter the'r kin. Tooby shore! tooby shore! Yessum, a mighty purty pass,' says I."

I cannot hope to give even a faint intimation of the remarkable dramatic fervour and earnestness of this recital, nor shall
I attempt to describe the rude eloquence of attitude and expression; but they seemed to represent the real or fancied

wrongs of a class, and to spring from the pent-up rage of a century.

"I wa'n't lookin' fer no compermise, nuther," Mrs. Bivins continued. "I fully spected 'er to flar' up an' fly at me; but
'stedder that, she kep' a- stan'in' thar lookin' thes like folks does when theyer runnin' over sump'n in the'r min'. Then her
eye lit on some 'er the pictur's what Deely had hung up on the side er the house, an' in pertic'lar one what some 'er the
Woruum niggers had fetched 'er, whar a great big dog was a-watehin' by a little bit er baby. When she seen that, bless
your soul, she thes sunk right down on the floor, an' clincht 'er han's, an' brung a gasp what looked like it might er bin
the last, an' d'reckly she ast, in a whisper, says she—

"'Was this my dear daughter's room?'

"Maybe you think," said Mrs. Bivins, regarding me coldly and critically, and pressing her thin lips more firmly together, if
that could be—"maybe you think I oughter wrung my han's, an' pitied that 'oman kneelin' thar in that room whar all my
trouble was born an' bred. Some folks would 'a flopped down by 'er, an' I won't deny but what hit come over me; but
the nex' minnit hit flashed acrost me as quick an' hot as powder how she'd 'a bin a-houndin' airter me an' my son, an' a-
treatin' us like as we'd 'a bin the offscourin's er creation, an' how she cast off her own daughter, which Deely was as
good a gal as ever draw'd the breath er life—when all this come over me, hit seem like to me that I couldn't keep my
paws off'n 'er. I hope the Lord'll forgive me—that I do—but if hit hadn't but 'a bin for my raisin', I'd 'a jumped at Emily
Wornum an' 'a spit in 'er face an' 'a clawed 'er eyes out'n 'er. An' yit, with ole Nick a-tuggin' at me, I was a Christun
'nuff to thank the Lord that they was a tender place in that pore miserbul creetur's soul-case.
"When I seen her a-kneelin' thar, with 'er year-rings a-danglin' an' 'er fine feathers a-tossin' an' a-trimblin', leetle more
an' my thoughts would 'a sot me afire. I riz an' I stood over her, an' I says, says I—

"'Emily Wornum, whar you er huntin' the dead you oughter hunted the livin'. What's betwix' you an' your Maker I can't
tell,' says I, 'but if you git down on your face an' lick the dirt what Deely Bivins walked on, still you won't be humble
enough for to go whar she's gone, nor good enough nuther. She died right yer while you was a-traipsin' an' a- trollopin'
roun' frum pos' to pillar a-upholdin' your quality idees. These arms helt 'er,' says I, 'an' ef hit hadn't but 'a bin for her,
Emily Wornum,' says I, 'I'd 'a strangled the life out'n you time your shadder darkened my door. An' what's more,' says
I, 'ef youer come to bother airter Pud, the make the trail of it. Thes so much as lay the weight er your little finger
on 'er,' says I, 'an' I'll grab you by the goozle an' t'ar your haslet out,' says I."

O mystery of humanity! It was merely Mrs. Feratia Bivins who had been speaking, but the voice was the voice of
Tragedy. Its eyes shone; its fangs glistened and gleamed; its hands clutched the air; its tone was husky with suppressed
fury; its rage would have stormed the barriers of the grave. In another moment Mrs. Bivins was brushing the crumbs
from her lap, and exchanging salutations with her neighbours and acquaintances; and a little later, leading her grandchild
by the hand, she was making her way back to the church, where the congregation had begun to gather.

III.

FOR my own part, I preferred to remain under the trees, and I soon found that this was the preference of Mingo. The
old man had finished his dinner, and sat at the foot of a gigantic oak, gazing dreamily at the fleecy clouds that sailed
across the sky. His hands were clasped above his head, and his attitude was one of reflection. The hymn with which the
afternoon services were opened came through the woods with a distinctness that was not without a remote and curious
suggestion of pathos. As it died away, Mingo raised himself slightly, and said, in a tone that was intended to be
explanatory, if not apologetic—

"Miss F'raishy, ef she ain't one sight, den I ain't never seed none. I s'pec' it seem sorter funny ter you, boss, but dat w'ite
'oman done had lots er trouble; she done had bunnunce er trouble—she sholy is! Look mighty cu'us dat some folks
can't git useter yuther folks w'at got Fergiuny ways, but dat's Miss F'raishy up en down. Dat's her, sho! Ole Miss en ole
Marster dey had Ferginny ways, en Miss F'raishy she wouldn't 'a staid in a ten-acre fiel' wid urn—dat she wouldn't.
Folks wa't got Ferginny ways, Miss F'raishy she call um big-bugs, en she git hostile w'en she year der name call. Hit's
de same way wid niggers. Miss F'raishy she hate de common run er niggers like dey wuz pizen. Yit I ain't makin' no
complaints, kaze she mighty good ter me. I goes en I suns myse'f in Miss F'raishy back peazzer all day Sundays, w'en
dey ain't no meetin's gwine on, en all endurin' er de week I hangs 'roun' en ploughs a little yer, en hoes a little dar, en
scratches a little yander, en looks arter ole Miss' gran'chile. But des let 'n'er nigger so much ez stick der chin 'cross de
yard palin's, en, bless yo' soul, you'll year Miss F'raishy blaze out like de woods done cotch afire."

Mingo paused here to chuckle over the discomfiture and alarm of the imaginary negro who had had the temerity to stick
his supposititious chin over the fence. Then he went on—

"I dunner whar Miss F'raishy git do notion 'bout dat chile a-faverin' er de Wornums, kaze she de ve'y spit en image er
ole Miss, en ole Miss wuz a full-blood Bushrod. De Bushrods is de fambly what I cum fum myse'f, kaze w'en ole Miss
marry Marster, my mammy fell ter her, en w'en I got big 'nuff, dey tuck me in de house fer ter wait on de table en do
er'n's, en dar I bin twel freedom come out. She 'uz mighty high- strung, ole Miss wuz, yit I sees folks dese days put on
mo' a'rs dan w'at ole Miss ever is. I ain't 'sputin' but w'at she hilt 'er head high, en I year my mammy say dat all the

Bushrods in Ferginny done zactly dat a way.

"High-strung yer, headstrong yander," continued Mingo, closing one eye, and gazing at the sun with a confidential air.
"Ef it hadn't er bin fer de high-strungity-head-strongityness er de Bushrod blood, Miss Deely wouldn't 'a never runn'd
off wid Clay Bivins in de roun' worril, dough he 'uz des one er de nicest w'ite mens w'at you 'mos' ever laid yo' eyes on.
Soon ez she done dat, wud went 'roun' fum de big house dat de nigger w'at call Miss Deely name on dat plantation
would be clap on de cote-house block, en ole Miss she shot 'erse'f up, she did, en arter dat mighty few folks got a
glimpse un 'er, 'ceppin' hit 'uz some er de kin, en bless yo' soul, dey hatter look mighty prim w'en dey come whar she
wuz. Ole Marster he ain't say nothin', but he tuck a fresh grip on de jimmy-john, en it got so dat, go whar you would,
dey want no mo' lonesomer place on de face er de yeth dan dat Wornum plantation, en hit look like ruination done sot
in. En den, on top er dat, yer come de war, en Clay Bivins he went off en got kilt, en den freedom come out, en des
'bout dat time Miss Deely she tuck 'n' die.

"I 'clar' ter gracious," exclaimed Mingo, closing his eyes and frowning heavily, "w'en I looks back over my shoulder at
dem times, hit seem like it mighty funny dat any un us pull thoo. Some did en some didn't, en dem w'at did, dey look
like deyer mighty fergitful. W'en de smash come, ole Marster he call us niggers up, he did, en 'low dat we 'uz all free.
Some er de boys 'low dat dey wuz a-gwineter see ef dey wuz free sho 'nuff, en wid dat dey put out fer town, en some
say ef dey wuz free dey wuz free ter stay. Some talk one way en some talk 'n'er. I let you know I kep' my mouf shot,
yit my min' 'uz brimful er trouble.

"Bimeby soon one mornin' I make a break. I wrop up my little han'ful er duds in a hankcher, en I tie de hankcher on my
walkin'-cane, en I put out arter de army. I walk en I walk, en 'bout nine dat night I come ter Ingram Ferry. De flat wuz
on t'er side er de river, en de man w'at run it look like he gone off some'rs. I holler en I whoop, en I whoop en I holler,
but ef dey wuz any man 'roun', he wuz hidin' out fum me. Arter so long I got tired er whoopin' en hollerin', en I went ter
de nighest house en borrer'd a chunk, en built me a fier by de side er de road, en I set dar en nod twel I git sleepy, en
den I pull my blanket 'cross my head en quile up—en w'en I do dat, hit's good-bye, Mingo!

"Boss," said Mingo, after a little pause, "you don't b'leeve in no ghos'es en sperrits, does you?"

An apparently irrelevant inquiry, suddenly put, is sometimes confusing, and I fear I did not succeed in convincing Mingo
of my unbelief.

"Some does en some don't," he continued, "but ez fer me, you kin des put me sorter 'twix' en between. Dey mout be
ghos'es en den ag'in dey moutent. Ole nigger like me ain't got no bizness takin' sides, en dat w'at make I say w'at I
does. I ain't mo'n kivver my head wid dat blanket en shot my eyes, 'fo' I year somebody a-callin' un me. Fus' hit soun'
way off yander.

"'Mingo!—oh, Mingo!' en den hit got nigher—'Mingo !—oh, Mingo!'

"I ain't 'spon' ter dat, but I lay dar, I did, en I say ter myse'f—

"'Bless gracious! de man on t'er side done come, but how in de name er goodness is he know Mingo?'

"I lay dar, en I study en I lissen, en I lissen en I study; en den I doze off like, en fus' news I know yer come de call—

"'Mingo!—oh, Mingo!'

"Hit soun' nigher, yit hit seem like it come fum a mighty fur ways, en den wiles I wundin' en studyin', yer she come mo'
plainer dan befo'—

"'OH, MINGO!'

"I snatch de blanket offn my head, en sot up en lissen, I did, en den I make answer—

"'Who dat callin' Mingo way out yer?'

"I lissen en I lissen, but nobody ain't callin'. I year de water sneakin' 'long under de bank, en I year de win' squeezin' en
shufflin' 'long thoo de trees, en I year de squinch-owl shiver'n' like he cole, but I ain't year no callin'. Dis make me feel
sorter jubous like, but I lay down en wrop up my head.

"I ain't bin dar long 'fo' bimeby yer come de call, en it soun' right at me. Hit rise en it fall, en de wud wuz—

"'Mingo!—oh, Mingo! Whar my little baby? My little baby, Mingo! Whar my little, baby?'

"En den, boss, hit seem like I year sump'n like a 'oman cryin' in de dark like 'er heart gwineter break. You kin laff ef you
mineter, but I ain't dast ter take dat blanket offn my head, kaze I know my young mistiss done come back, en mo'n dat,
I know sho 'uz stannin" dar right over me.

"Tooby sho I wuz skeer'd, but I wa'n't so skeer'd dat I dunner w'at she mean, en I des broke inter de bigges' kinder

boo-hoo, en I say, sez I—

"'Make yo' peace, Miss Deely! make yo' peace, honey! kaze I gwine right back ter dat baby ef de Lord spar' me. I
gwine back, Miss Deely! I gwine back!'

"Bless yo' soul, boss, right den en dar I know'd w'at bin a- pester'n' un me, kaze des time I make up my min' fer ter
come back ter dat baby, hit look like I see my way mo' cle'r dan w'at it bin befo'. Arter dat I lay dar, I did, en I lissen
en I lissen, but I ain't year no mo' callin' en no mo' cryin'; en bimeby I tuck de blanket fum off'n my head, en lo en
beholes, de stars done fade out, en day done come, en dey wa'n't no fuss nowhars. De squinch-owl done hush, en de
win' done gone, en it look like de water done stop sneakin' en crawlin' und' de bank.

"I riz up, I did, en shuck de stift'nes out'n my bones, en I look 'way 'cross de river ter de top er de hill whar de road
lead. I look en I say, sez I—

"'Maybe you leads ter freedom, but, bless God! I gwine back.'

"Des 'bout dat time I see de fe'ymun come down ter de flat en onloose de chain, en make ez he wuz comin' 'cross arter
me. Wid dat I raise up my hat en tip 'im a bow, en dat's de las' I seed un 'im.

"I come back, I did," continued Mingo, reflectively, "en yer I is, en yer I bin; en I ain't come none too soon, en I ain't
stay none too close, n'er, kaze I dunuer w'at mout er happin. Miss F'raishy been mighty good, too, sho. She ain't useter
niggers like some w'ite folks, en she can't git 'long wid um, but she puts up wid me mighty well. I tuck holt er de little
piece er groun' w'at she had, en by de he'p er de Lord we bin gittin on better dan lots er folks. It bin nip en tuck, but ole
tuck come out ahead, en it done got so now dat Miss P'raishy kin put by some er de cotton money fer ter give de little
gal a chance w'en she git bigger. 'Twon't b'ar tellin' how smart dat chile is. She got Miss Deely peanner, en, little ez she
is, she kin pick mos' all de chunes w'at her mammy useter pick. She sets at de peanner by de hour, en whar she larnt it I
be bless ef I kin tell you—dat I can't!"

The little girl had grown tired of the services in the church, and ran out just as the old man had put my horse to the
buggy. Mingo knew a shorter road to Rockville than that by which I had come, and taking the child by the hand, he
walked on ahead to show me the way. In a little while we came to the brow of a hill, and here I bade the old man and
his charge good-bye, and the two stood watching me as I drove away. Presently a cloud of dust rose between us, and I
saw them no more, but I brought away a very pretty picture in my mind—Mingo with his hat raised in farewell, the
sunshine falling gently upon his grey hairs, and the little girl clinging to his hand and daintily throwing kisses after me.

AT TEAGUE POTEET'S.

A SKETCH OF THE HOG MOUNTAIN RANGE

AT TEAGUE POTEET'S.

A SKETCH OF THE HOG MOUNTAIN RANGE

EMMIGRATION is a much more serious matter than revolution. Virtually, it is obliteration. Thus, Gérard Petit, landing
upon the coast of South Carolina in the days of French confusion—a period covering too many dates for a romancer to
be at all choice in the matter—gave his wife and children over to the oblivion of a fatal fever. Turning his face westward,
he pushed his way to the mountains. He had begun his journey fired with the despair of an exile, and he ended it with
something of the energy and enterprise of a pioneer. In the foot-hills of the mountains he came to the small stream of
English colonists that was then trickling slowly southward through the wonderful valleys that stretch from Pennsylvania
to Georgia, between the foot-hills of the Blue Ridge and the great Cumberland Range. Here, perhaps for the first time,
the je, vous, nous of France met in conflict the "ah yi," the "we uns" and the "you uns" of the English-Pennsylvania-
Georgians. The conflict was brief. There was but one Gérard Petit, and, although he might multiply the je, vous, nous
by the thousands and hundreds of thousands, as he undoubtedly did, yet, in the very nature of things, the perpetual
volley of "you uns" and "we uns" must carry the day. They belonged to the time, and the climate suited them. By degrees
they fitted themselves to Gérard Petit; they carried him from the mountains of South Carolina to the mountains of North
Georgia, and there they helped him to build a mill and found a family. But their hospitality did not end there. With the
new mill and the new family, they gave him a new name. Gérard Petit, presumably with his hand upon his heart, as
became his race, made one last low bow to genealogy. In his place stood Jerd Poteet, "you uns" to the left of him, "we
uns" to the right of him. He made such protest as he might. He brought his patriotism to bear upon the emergency, and
named his eldest son Huguenin Petit. How long this contest between hospitality on the one hand and family pride and

patriotism on the other was kept up it is unnecessary to inquire. It is enough to say that the Huguenin of one generation,
left Hugue Poteet as his son and heir; Hugue left Hague, and this Hague, or a succeeding one, by some mysterious
development of fate, left Teague Poteet.

Meanwhile the restless stream of English-Pennsylvania-Georgians, with its "you uns" and its "we uns," trickled over into
Alabama, where some of the Petits who were carried with it became Pettys and Pettises. The Georgia settlements,
however, had been reinforced by Virginians, South Carolinians, and Georgians. The gold excitement brought some;
while others, set adrift by the exigencies of the plantation system, found it easier and cheaper to get to North Georgia
than to reach Louisiana or Mississippi. Thus, in 1859, Teague Poteet, a young man of thirty or thereabouts, was tilling,
in a half-serious, half-jocular way, a small farm on Hog Mountain, in full view of Gullettsville. That is to say, Poteet
could see the whole of Gullettsville, but Gullettsville could not, by any means, see the whole, nor even the half, of
Poteet's fifty-acre farm. Gullettsville could see what appeared to be a grey notch on the side of the mountain, from
which a thin stream of blue smoke flowed upward and melted into the blue of the sky, and this was about all that could
be seen. Gullettsville had the advantage in this, that it was the county-seat. A country-road, straggling in from the
woods, straggled around a barn-like structure called the court- house, and then straggled off to some other remote and
lonely settlement.

Upon rare occasions Teague made his appearance on this straggling street, and bought his dram and paid his thrip for it;
but, in a general way, if Gullettsville wanted to see him, it had to search elsewhere than on the straggling street. By
knocking the sheriff of the county over the head with a chair, and putting a bullet through a saloon-keeper who bullied
everybody, Poteet won the reputation of being a man of marked shrewdness and common sense, and Gullettsville was
proud of him, in a measure. But he never liked Gullettsville. He wore a wool hat, a homespun shirt, jeans pantaloons,
and cotton suspenders, and he never could bring himself into thorough harmony with the young men who wore ready-
made clothes, starched shirts, and beaver hats; nor was his ideal of feminine beauty reached by the village belles, with
their roach-combs, their red and yellow ribbons, and their enormous flounces. In the mountains, he was to the manner
born; in the village, he was keenly alive to the presence and pressure of the exclusiveness that is the basis of all society,
good, bad, or indifferent; and it stirred his venom. His revolt was less pronounced and less important than that of his
ancestors; but it was a revolt. Gérard Petit left France, and Teague Poteet remained away from Gullettsville. Otherwise
there was scarcely a trace of his lineage about him, and it is a question whether he inherited this trait from France or
from the Euphrates—from Gérard or from Adam.

But he did not become a hermit by any means. The young men of Gullettsville made Sunday excursions to his farm, and
he was pleased to treat them with great deference. Moreover, he began to go upon little journeys of his own across
Sugar Valley. He made no mystery of his intentions; but one day there was considerable astonishment when he rode
into Gullettsville on horseback, with Puss Pringle behind him, and informed the proper authorities of his desire to make
her Mrs. Puss Poteet. Miss Pringle was not a handsome woman, but she was a fair representative of that portion of the
race that has poisoned whole generations by improving the frying-pan and perpetuating "fatty bread." The impression
she made upon those who saw her for the first time was one of lank flatness—to convey a vivid idea rather clumsily.
But she was neither lank nor flat. The total absence of all attempts at artificial ornamentation gave the future Mrs. Poteet
an appearance of forlorn shiftlessness that was not even slightly justified by the facts. She was a woman past the heyday
of youth, but of considerable energy, and possessed of keen powers of observation. Whatever was feminine about her
was of that plaintive variety which may be depended upon to tell the story of whole generations of narrow, toilsome,
and unprofitable lives.

There was one incident connected with Miss Pringle's antenuptial ride that rather intensified the contempt which the
Mountain entertained for the Valley. As she jogged down the street, clinging confidently, if not comfortably, to Teague
Poteet's suspenders, two young ladies of Gullettsville chanced to be passing along. They walked slowly, their arms
twined about each other's waists. They wore white muslin dresses, and straw hats with wide and jaunty brims, and the
loose ends of gay ribbons fluttered about them. These young ladies, fresh from school, and no doubt full of vainglory,
greeted the bridal procession with a little explosion of giggles, and when Puss Pringle pushed back her gingham sun-
bonnet and innocently gazed upon them, they turned up their noses, sniffed the air scornfully, and made such
demonstrations as no feminine mind, however ignorant in other directions, could fail to interpret.

Miss Pringle had not learned the art of tossing her head and sniffing the air, but she half closed her eyes and gave the
young ladies a look that meant something more than scorn. She said nothing to Teague, for she was in hopes he had not
observed the tantrums of the school-girls.

As for Teague, he saw the whole affair, and was out to the quick. In addition to the latent pride of his class, he inherited
the sensitiveness of his ancestors, but, turning his eyes neither to the right nor to the left, he jogged along to the wedding.
He carried his wife home, and thereafter avoided Gullettsville. When he was compelled to buy coffee and sugar, or
other necessary luxuries, he rode forty miles across the mountain to Villa Bay.

He had been married a year or more when, one afternoon, he was compelled to ride down to Gullettsville under whip
and spur for a doctor. There was a good deal of confused activity in the town. Old men and young boys were stirring
around with blue cockades in their hats, and the women wore blue rosettes on their bosoms. Three negroes in uniform
—a contribution from the nearest railroad town—were parading up and down the straggling street with fife and drums,

and a number of men were planting a flag-pole in front of the court-house.

No conscientious historian can afford to ignore a coincidence, and it so happened that upon the very day that league
Poteet's wife presented him with the puzzle of a daughter, Fate presented his countrymen with the problem of war. That
night, sitting in the door of his house and smoking his pipe, Teague witnessed other developments of the coincidence. In
the next room the baby-girl squalled most persistently; down in the valley the premonitions of war made themselves
heard through the narrow throat of a small cannon which, until then, had been used only to celebrate the Fourth of July.

The noise of a horse's hoofs roused Teague's hounds, and some one called out from the road—

"Hello, Poteet!"

"Ah-yi!"

"You hearn the racket?"

"My gal-baby keeps up sich a hollerin' I can't hear my own years."

"Oh!"

"You better b'lieve! Nine hours ole, an' mighty peart. What's them Restercrats in the valley cuttin' up the'r scollops fer?"

"Whoopin' up sesaysion. Sou' Ca'liny done plum gone out, an' Georgy a-gwine."

Teague Poteet blew a long, thin cloud of home-made tobacco-smoke heavenward, leaned back heavily in his chair, and
replied—

"Them air Restercrats kin go wher' they dang please; I'm a-gwine to stay right slambang in the United States."

There was a little pause, as if the man on horseback was considering the matter. Then the response came—

"Here's at you!"

"Can't you 'light?" asked Poteet.

"Not now," said the other; "I'll git on furder."

The man on horseback rode on across the mountain to his home. Another mountaineer, seeing the rockets and hearing
the sound of the cannon, came down to Poteet's for information. He leaned over the brush- fence.

"What's up, Teague?"

"Gal-baby; reg'lar surbinder."
"Shoo! won't my ole 'oman holler! What's up down yan?"

"Them dad-blasted Restercrats a secedin' out'n the United States."

"They say theyer airter savin' of the'r niggers," said the man at the fence.

"Well, I hain't got none, and I hain't a wantin' none; an' it hain't been ten minnits sence I ups an' says to Dave Hightower,
s' I, 'The United States is big enough for me.'"

"Now you er makin' the bark fly," said the man at the fence.

During the night other men came down the mountain as far as Poteet's, and always with the same result.

The night broadened into day, and other days and nights followed. In the valley the people had their problem of war,
and on the mountain Teague Poteet had the puzzle of his daughter. One was full of doubt and terror, and death, and the
other full of the pleasures of peace. As the tide of war surged nearer and nearer, and the demand for recruits became
clamorous, the people of the valley bethought them of the gaunt but sturdy men who lived on the mountain. A conscript
officer, representing the necessities of a new government, made a journey thither —a little excursion full of authority and
consequence. As he failed to return, another officer, similarly equipped and commissioned, rode forth and disappeared,
and then another and another; and it was not until a little search expedition had been fitted out that the Confederates
discovered that the fastnesses of Hog Mountain concealed a strong and dangerous organisation of Union men. There
was a good deal of indignation in the valley when this state of affairs became known, and there was some talk of
organising a force for the purpose of driving the mountaineers away from their homes. But somehow the Valley never
made up its mind to attack the Mountain, and, upon such comfortable terms as these, the Mountain was very glad to let
the Valley alone.

After a while the Valley had larger troubles to contend with. Gullettsville became in some measure a strategic point, and

the left wing of one army and the right wing of the other manoeuvred for possession. The left wing finally gave way, and
the right wing marched in and camped round about, introducing to the distracted inhabitants General Tecumseh
Sherman and some of his lieutenants. The right wing had learned that a number of Union men were concealed on the
mountain, and one or two little excursion parties were made up for the purpose of forming their acquaintance. These
excursions were successful to this extent, that some of the members thereof returned to the friendly shelter of the right
wing with bullet-holes in them, justly feeling that they had been outraged. The truth is, the Poteets, and the Pringles, and
the Hightowers of Hog Mountain had their own notions of what constituted Union men. They desired to stay in the
United States on their own terms. If nobody pestered them, they pestered nobody.

Meanwhile league Poteet's baby had grown to be a thumping girl, and hardly a day passed that she did not accompany
her father in his excursions. When the contending armies came in sight, Teague and his comrades spent a good deal of
their time in watching them. Each force passed around an elbow of the mountain, covering a distance of nearly sixty
miles, and thus for days and weeks this portentous panorama was spread out before these silent watchers. Surely never
before did a little girl have two armies for her playthings. The child saw the movements of the soldiers, the glitter of the
array, and the waving of the banners; she heard the dull thunder of the cannon, and the sharp rattle of the musketry.
When the sun went down, and the camp-fire shone out, it seemed that ten thousand stars had fallen at her feet, and
sometimes sweet strains of music stole upward on the wings of the night, and slipped heavenward through the sighing
pines.

The grey columns swung right and left, and slowly fell back; the blue columns swayed right and left, and slowly pressed
forward—sometimes beneath clouds of sulphurous smoke, sometimes beneath heavy mists of rain, sometimes in the
bright sunshine. They swung and swayed slowly out of sight, and Hog Mountain and Gullettsville were left at peace.

The child grew and thrived. In the midst of a gaunt and sallow generation she shone radiantly beautiful. In some
mysterious way she inherited the beauty, and grace, and refinement of a Frenchwoman. Merely as a phenomenon, she
ought to have reminded league of his name and lineage; but Teague had other matters to think of. "Sis ain't no dirt-
eater," he used to say, and to this extent only would he commit himself, his surroundings having developed in him that
curious excess of caution and reserve which characterises his class.

As for Puss Poteet, she sat and rocked herself and rubbed snuff, and regarded her daughter as one of the profound
mysteries. She was in a state of perpetual bewilderment and surprise, equalled only by her apparent indifference. She
allowed herself to be hustled around by Sis without serious protest, and submitted, as Teague did, to the new order of
things as quietly as possible.

Meanwhile the people in the valley were engaged in adjusting themselves to the changed condition of affairs. The war
was over, but it had left some deep scars here and there, and those who had engaged in it gave their attention to healing
these—a troublesome and interminable task, be it said, which by no means kept pace with the impatience of the victors,
whipped into fury by the subtle but ignoble art of the politician. There was no lack of despair in the valley, but out of it
all prosperity grew, and the promise of a most remarkable future. Behind the confusion of politics, of one sort and
another, the spirit of Progress rose and shook her ambitious wings.

Something of all this must have made itself felt on the mountain, for one day Teague Poteet pushed his wide-brimmed
wool hat from over his eyes, with an air of astonishment. Puss had just touched upon a very important matter.

"I reckon in reason," she said, "we oughter pack Sis off to school some'rs. She'll thes nat'ally spile here."

"Hain't you larnt her how to read an' write an' cipher?" asked Teague.

"I started in," said Mrs. Poteet, "but, Lord! I hain't more'n opened a book tell she know'd mor'n I dast to know ef I wuz
gwine to die fer it. Hit'll take somebody lots smarter'n' stronger'n me."

Teague laughed, and then relapsed into seriousness. After a while he called Sis. The girl came running in, her dark eyes
flashing, her black hair bewitchingly tangled, and her cheeks flushing with a colour hitherto unknown to the mountain.

"What now, pap?"

"I wuz thes a-thinkin' ef maybe you oughtn't to bresh up an' start to school down in Gullettsville."

"O pap!" the girl exclaimed, clapping her hands with delight. She was about to spring upon Teague and give him a
severe hugging, when suddenly her arms dropped to her side, the flush died out of her face, and she flopped herself
down upon a chair. Teague paid no attention to this.

"Yes, siree," he continued, as if pursuing a well-developed line of argument; "when a gal gits ez big ez you is, she hain't
got no business to be a-...